A poem I like

KEEPING SOUND TRACK
by Buddy Wakefield

Keep allowing the next life to be offered to us daily

via live streaming satellite by entitled white
rabbits and tragedy addicts

dragging their fingernail

file

cabinets

across records of the damage your nerves have done.

Call them inglorious preachers of a sensational game.

Tell them sensations and games are at the root of
why they are walking so inefficiently,

warped 45s with credit card swagger charging up
a sad sad path

like Ray Charles singing Seven Spanish Angels to
the bottom of the barrel in

broad daylight.  Stop congregating in the valley
just because an echo sounds good when it agrees
with itself.